


Take Strength

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adoption, Domestic Fluff, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, this fandom needs more kidfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 06:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14889404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: Seventeen months, two interviews, and five hundred pages of paperwork later, they meet him.





	Take Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Rachel ([catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com)) for providing emotional support and reading this in 150-word increments ♡
> 
> (Makkachin is at least 2 years older than is probable here. Please note that we're going to ignore that fact completely.)

The first thing they do after they both retire is each other. A lot, perhaps too much, with ludicrous frequency and intensity. Every restriction they placed on themselves for the sake of training and competing flies out the window of their overwater bungalow in Tahiti, then their penthouse suite of the Shangri-la in Bangkok, then their villa on the coast of Greece. Their belated honeymoon extravaganza is a month long and features eight countries that, for all of their figure-skating-related travel, neither of them had set foot in before. They visit friends (like Phichit in Thailand), obliterate any semblance of a diet, and spend as much time exploring the familiarity of each other’s bodies as they do the unfamiliar cities that surround them. Yuuri will swear, despite the near constant travel and the preponderance of nude beaches, that it is the best month of his life. 

The second thing they do is buy a house. It seems like a fantasy not even a prepubescent Yuuri could have come up with—the Katsuki-Nikiforovs of 7-10 Umibe-cho, Hasetsu-shi, Saga-ken, a beautiful two-story facing the sea with a wood frame, sliding doors, a wraparound veranda, and a yard the perfect size for a poodle to play. It’s an old home, well-worn and well-loved, barely three kilometers from Yutopia Onsen. Every morning after they move in, Yuuri and Viktor take tea on the porch with Makkachin at their feet and love it even more.

The third thing, though—well, that’s a bit trickier. Yuuri isn’t sure it can be qualified as a _thing_ , because from start to finish the whole ordeal takes about a year and a half, and then a lifetime stacked on top.

It starts because of their yard that spills into the seashore, purchased with Makkachin in mind—Makkachin, who liked the beach back in St. Petersburg but loves it here in Japan; Makkachin, who splashes in the waves and dries off in the grass of their yard and settles down to gnaw on her toys.

Makkachin, who is getting very old.

So they talk about getting puppies. First one, then two, because they have the time and the energy now and Makka deserves some youthful companionship. (Viktor insists that he himself does not count, because he is thirty-three and also very, very old. Yuuri knows it’s just a ploy for more puppies and for Yuuri to take him to bed and prove just how _youthful_ Viktor is. Yuuri knows, and falls for it anyhow.)

And then somewhere along the line, one puppy becomes two puppies becomes a child.

Once the idea is out there, once it’s spoken, there is no going back. Their new home is suddenly too quiet, too empty, too large. And there’s that room at the end of the hallway that neither of them knew what to do with.

All of this, to say nothing of the absurd amount of love they have to give.

Adoption, they decide after two minutes of discussion. Yuuri would prefer it, and Viktor admits he had not even considered anything else as an option.

Seventeen months, two interviews, and five hundred pages of paperwork later, they meet him. 

Viktor’s leg shakes the entirety of the train ride to Fukuoka, what must be their sixth trip to-and-from. His head is bent over a last-minute form (page five hundred and one). He squints his eyes as if that will improve his Kanji vocabulary, and eventually gives up and asks Yuuri, who has offered at least three times already to fill it out for him.

“I can’t do this.”

“I told you, I can do it for you—”

“No, no, not the form,” Viktor dismisses with a wave of his hand. “How am I supposed to be a good father to him if I barely speak Japanese?”

Viktor has had his fair share of cold feet moments in the past year and a half. So has Yuuri. Luckily, they seem to take turns.

“Your Japanese is perfectly fine, Vitya.”

And it’s true. Viktor’s Japanese is a bizarre, Russian-accented lovechild of Yuuri’s standard dialect and the Katsukis’ Kyushu-ben. He knows every single word related to inn-keeping, figure-skating, and dog-grooming. He can laugh with his in-laws at family dinner, compliment Yuuri’s mother on the yakitori, discuss the upcoming Grand Prix Series with Minako, and sing along to drinking songs with Nakamura-san, the owner of his favorite ramen restaurant. He can whisper sweet nothings in Yuuri’s ear while they cuddle up in bed and filthy nothings when they do much more than that.

But Viktor can’t read kanji for shit.

This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. Yuuri sighs, rests his hand atop Viktor’s shaking leg, and tells him again.

“You don’t need to read his language to be his father. It will be a few years before he even starts to learn to read, and they’ll teach him in schools, and they’ll give him workbooks to learn all the characters and you can sit right down and learn it with him. Okay?”

“What about story time? I’ve seen so many articles talking about how important storytime is, and…”

Yuuri knows exactly which articles he’s referring to. He’s found Viktor’s seven parenting magazines in his bedside table and flipped through them himself. “Children’s books are in hiragana, Vitya. Besides, I can read to him in Japanese, and you can read to him in Russian. We’ll read together to him in English. We’ll have him trilingual by the time he’s six.”

Viktor chuckles and falls silent.

“You will be a great father,” Yuuri whispers, presses a kiss to Viktor’s ear, and tucks his head atop Viktor’s shoulder for the rest of the train ride there.

…

His name is Michi. Four years old, big brown eyes and jet-black hair cropped short. Within minutes, Viktor is already calling him _Michka._

The boy stands rooted to the floor next to the social worker, taking them in with wary eyes. He stares at Viktor the longest, and Yuuri can’t blame him. Tall, pale, with shining silver hair and eyes like the ocean and a rumbly voice that looks right at Michi and says his name all wrong—Yuuri knows, from years of children coming up to them on the beach wanting to pet Viktor’s hair, the first impression that his husband makes in Yuuri’s homeland. It would be comical, if the little boy didn’t look so frightened.

Yuuri eventually gets the courage to speak, swallowing his fear of saying the wrong thing and just _talking_ in as soothing a voice as he can muster.

“I am Yuuri, and this is my husband, Viktor. Has Tanaka-san told you about us?”

Somehow, it helps. The boy blinks, his tensed shoulders relaxing, and nods. Behind him the social worker nods as well. Yuuri knew, of course—Michi would have been shown their pictures, and a picture of their house, and hopefully the one of the two of them and Makkachin that Phichit took at their wedding. He would have been told that he was going to live with them in a small town not too far away, this nice couple called the Katsuki-Nikiforovs.

“Good. She’s told us all about you, too. And if you let us, we would like to take care of you.”

Michi’s eyes dart around the room, from Yuuri to Viktor to the social worker to the sparse decorations and back again. “Is _Vikutoru-san_ a spirit?”

Viktor grins. “No, I’m from a country far away. That’s why I look a little different than you.”

Michi frowns. “You sound funny.”

“Now Michi—” the social worker begins, but Viktor only laughs.

“I know! But I’m learning. Maybe you can help me, Michka?”

“Okay,” the boy whispers.

They take him home that evening in a taxi. It’s expensive but it’s worth the quiet and the privacy. For a little boy who has lived his whole life in an orphanage, they feared the train would be too overwhelming. 

The taxi is overwhelming too. It’s small and enclosed and the little boy is wedged in the middle seat between two men he has only just met but are supposed to be his parents. Yuuri doubts he even understands what _parents_ means. To fill the silence, Yuuri and Viktor converse in slow Japanese about nothing at all of consequence.

“Do you like dogs, Michka?” Viktor asks as they cross back into Saga Prefecture.

The boy shrugs, not looking up, and Yuuri throws Viktor a look over his head. Viktor shrugs.

They have their first argument as parents that night. It’s nothing big, really. After they put Michi to bed in the room at the end of the hall (completely renovated, ready for months for this very night), they argue in whispers because Viktor’s being too pushy and Yuuri’s being too distant and they can’t agree on how to approach a scared child who won’t talk to them.

“You can’t keep walking on eggshells around him, it’s not going to solve anything.”

Yuuri huffs. “So I should be more like you? You keep asking him questions when he obviously doesn’t want to talk!”

“It’s better than talking to each other like he’s not even there!”

“He’ll come around. He needs to know we’re not going to push him—”

“Maybe we _should_ push him! How else will he know we care? It’s just your anxiety making you afraid of saying the wrong thing, and—”

“This has _nothing_ to do with my anxiety.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

They don’t resolve it that night, but they kiss each other before bed and Viktor curls his back against Yuuri’s chest like normal.

And so they try to settle into a routine. Yuuri tries to push more, Viktor less. At first, the little boy waits for their cues on everything—he does nothing unless he’s told to, stays quiet, keeps his arms tucked to his sides and his footsteps light. But every day they watch as Michi slowly lets himself take up more space; a week in, he speaks without being spoken to, and it’s a small victory. 

They measure their lives in these small victories. At night they alternate giving him baths, and it is not long before Viktor teaches him to blow bubbles in the soap—Yuuri knows because he can hear them laughing from down the hallway. The first time this happens is the first time either of them have heard Michi laugh.

“Was it as beautiful as it sounded?”

Viktor sighs, smiling into Yuuri’s bare chest as Yuuri skates figure eights over Viktor’s shoulder blades. “More, I imagine.”

“I wish I would have seen it.”

“You will soon enough.”

And sure enough, the next evening Yuuri returns from the _konbini_ down the street with bags of food in his hands and is bowled over by an over-excited poodle. Michi, sitting at the kitchen island, _laughs_ , and Yuuri swears the frame of their home creaks as it expands to fit the love that fills it.

His heart clenches as he looks at their son’s smiling face and remembers the file the social worker had showed them. Birth certificate, immunization records, an incident report from six months ago where an older child had pushed him down and sprained his arm. _I need to know you’re serious before we proceed any further,_ she demanded, and proceeded to tell a story that still breaks Yuuri’s heart every time he looks at Michi—the story of a little boy who had packed up his drawstring backpack of belongings, gone to meet the couple who was to adopt him, spent a day with them, and then never saw them again. Yuuri’s chest aches to think of it. 

As far as Yuuri and Viktor are concerned, nothing like that will ever happen again.

…

Sometimes, the small victories don’t feel small at all.

“Can I have more rice, Yuuri-san?” Michi asks one night at dinner, barely one month after they bring him home. He rarely addresses either of them by name, and suddenly it sounds wrong.

Yuuri and Viktor glance at each other over the table. They’ve talked about this before, and a silent agreement forms between them.

“Of course,” Yuuri nods, and passes the bowl. “Mi-chan, if you wanted to… you could call me _Otousan._ ”

Michi’s eyes go as wide as saucers. “Oh.”

“Only if you want to,” Yuuri repeats.

“Okay.” The boy blinks, and looks to Viktor with a furrow in his brow. “Does that mean you’re _Okaasan?_ ”

A bright laugh bubbles from Viktor’s heart-shaped lips. “No, no, you can call me Papa.”

There’s an adorable blush across Michi’s nose as he looks back down into his bowl. That night they tuck him into bed and press one kiss each to their son’s forehead. It’s routine, their only regular expression of physical affection for a child who still likes to keep his distance.

“Goodnight, Michka,” Viktor bids.

They are met with silence until they are almost out the door.

“Goodnight Papa,” comes a whisper. “Goodnight Otousan.”

… 

Of course, it’s Makkachin that finally breaks the ice.

“It was really cold that day. I remember thinking it was the coldest day of the year.”

Yuuri stands in the archway that leads to the kitchen, two cups of steaming Sencha in his hands. He can hear their voices just on the other side of the couch and he inches forward to find his husband and son sitting side by side on the floor, leaning back against the front of the sofa with a poodle curled up at their feet.

“Did you see snow?” There’s wonderment in Michi’s voice. Yuuri wishes he could see his face.

“In the winter where I’m from, you can’t _not_ see snow! I think it was up to my waist, but they clear all the streets.”

“Were you a lot littler?”

Viktor hums. “I was fifteen.”

Yuuri has heard this story at least ten times, but he never tires of it. The first few times were in interview clips and magazine articles, fan-translated and nearly nonsensical but Yuuri watched and read them over and over again. Since then he has heard it in both English and Japanese by Viktor’s own lips and has begun to fill in more details, but this story has lived in his imagination for so long that he can picture it like he’d lived it himself—Viktor, gym bag and long silver hair slung over his shoulder, emerging from the empty rink hours after the winter sun had set to find the city fresh from snowfall. Yuuri can picture it even better now, having lived in that city and trained in that rink alongside him.

“I was hurrying to get home because it was so cold, but I heard a sound from the alley. It was coming from under the, uh, the…”

“The dumpster,” Yuuri supplies the word in Japanese, rounding the sofa to hand Viktor his tea. Both Viktor and Michi twist around.

“ _Spasibo,_ ” Viktor replies, for both the tea and the translation. Yuuri sits properly on the couch, looking on them from behind.

Michi’s eyes are wide. “Makka-chan was under a dumpster?”

“I know, it’s very sad.”

“What about her _okaasan_?”

“I don’t know, _zolotse._ It makes me sad, too.”

Michi turns his head to Viktor, face just enough in view that Yuuri can see his bottom lip sticking out below his top. “Wasn’t she cold?”

“She was. It was very, very dangerous for her to be out in the cold like that, especially so small. She was very tiny. Very skinny.”

“But you made her better, right?”

Viktor nods, a wistful smile on his face. “I picked her up and put her in my coat. She was shivering really badly, so I ran the whole way back home. We gave her a blanket and a baby bottle of warm milk and curled her up next to the space heater the second I got back.”

“She was scared?”

“Yes.” Viktor scratches under the dog’s chin; she wags her tongue in enjoyment. “And so was I.”

Michi looks away, focusing on his fingers as they run through the greying fur on Makkachin’s belly. “Your _otousan_ and _okaasan_ weren’t mad at you?”

Yuuri freezes and darts his gaze over to study his husband. From what Yuuri can see, Viktor does not even flinch.

“Well,” he sighs, “my mama and papa weren’t very good at taking care of me. So I lived with a man named Yakov. He was my skating coach, and is like a papa to me.”

“Oh.” Michi seems to have no trouble understanding this. “But Yakov-san wasn’t mad?" 

“About Makkachin?” Viktor laughs. “He was at first. But even though he acts like a grumpy old man, inside he has a very soft heart. He pretends that he only agreed so that I’d learn responsibility, but I know that he took one look at her big brown eyes and loved her just as much as I already did.” Viktor scratches behind Makkachin’s ears and coos at her wordlessly. Then to Michi, he says, “You’ll meet him someday. He lives in Russia, but he’s talking about coming to visit. He’s heard all about you, you know.”

Michi blinks. The dog yawns. Yuuri watches, heart swelling, as their son leans over until the side of his head rests against Viktor’s arm. It’s a breathtaking sight, and a first for their little family.

“Papa?”

Viktor wraps his arm around the boy’s back, pulling Michi closer and letting the boy’s head fall against the inside of his father’s shoulder. “Yes, Michka?”

“Thank you for bringing home Makka-chan.”

Viktor’s free hand reaches up and behind him, grasping blindly for Yuuri’s fingers. Yuuri takes his hand and squeezes. He knows the truth: that, over the years, Makkachin has saved Viktor more times than he ever saved her.

And now they’ve brought home Michi. When Viktor finally replies, his voice bends and wavers.

“Oh, Michyenka,” he sighs. “Thank you for loving her as much as I do.”

…

So ironically, it’s Viktor that Michi warms to first. For all that he was terrified the first time they met, thinking the tall, pale foreigner was a spirit of all things, there is no hint of fear in the way he begins to fall into orbit around the silver-haired man. At night they sit together on the couch and stream the shitty Russian soaps that Viktor can’t live without (probably giving Yuuri’s computer six viruses in the process) and Michi has no trouble curling up at his Papa’s side and repeating every new word that Viktor tries to teach him.

“Oh, you’ll like this one! That is a _shchenok._ ” Viktor points to the puppy curled up in one of the main characters’ arms.

“Makka-chan is a _shchenok_?”

“She is a _bol’shoy shchenok,_ ” Viktor replies, grinning as he stretches his arms out wide. A big puppy, he said.

If anything inappropriate happens on screen, Viktor makes a big, dramatic deal of covering Michi’s eyes.

Yuuri, sitting on Michi’s other side, tries very, _very_ hard not to be jealous. Green is an awful color on him, he knows, and Michi is a child with a lot of things to work through. It doesn’t mean he dislikes Yuuri—in fact, judging by the smiles Michi gives him when he enters a room, and the way he always offers to help make dinner, and the shy way he sometimes says _otousan_ … Yes, Michi quite likes Yuuri, and Yuuri refuses to let his anxiety tell him otherwise.

But. _But._ There is the small matter of Michi never giving him so much as a hug.

Of course, he can’t fault Michi for trusting Viktor so fully and so readily. They’ve bonded over Makkachin (who has swiftly become their son’s best friend, despite being twice his size and totally lethargic). They’ve bonded over Viktor’s silly accent and the “grumbly” words he teaches each night.

(When Yuuri is feeling particularly self-deprecating, he notices that Michi’s Russian pronunciation is often better than his own. He always kicks himself for comparing himself to his four-year-old son. Which leads to more self-deprecation, and it’s a vicious cycle.) 

Michi and Viktor have bonded, yes, but Yuuri knows the real explanation is simply Viktor himself. Viktor’s smiles are made of hearts and his entire being is effervescent. It is so easy to love him—he invites closeness, invites touch, invites trust. Yuuri knows this better than anyone.

And Yuuri just isn’t like that. At least he hasn’t felt like that lately.

“He will come around, love. He’s just adapting.”

“I know,” Yuuri mutters into Viktor’s naked chest one night.

“Besides, he’s keeping his distance. That’s true. But…” Viktor’s fingers twirl a strand of hair from behind Yuuri’s ear. “Maybe you’re keeping your distance, too.”

Yuuri scoffs. “I kiss his head every night when we put him to bed. I give him baths, I let him help me with meals even if all he can do is get flour everywhere. I read him picture books with you. I tell him I love him every single day.”

“I know that,” Viktor promises. “But… Well." 

“Well what?” Yuuri bristles.

“I don’t think you’ve really let him _see_ you.”

Yuuri is trying very, very hard not to be defensive. “What does that mean?”

“Just that you keep your guard up with him, sometimes. You are careful what you say and do—”

“He’s a child, we’re supposed to do that!”

“Yes, but—!” Viktor cuts himself off with a sigh. “I think maybe, and please don’t take this the wrong way—but I think you might be trying too hard.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, grounding himself in the smell of Viktor’s body soap. “I just want him to be comfortable here.”

“He will be. But how can he be comfortable around you if _you’re_ not comfortable around you?”

Yuuri snorts. “I can’t believe your advice is basically just to _be myself_.”

“It’s good advice.”

“It’s a cliché.”

“Maybe we can buy a bunch of those motivational posters for the rink that say that? You know, the ones with people on top of mountains or pictures of sunrises?”

“The triplets would deface them within minutes.”

“I’m counting on it.”

…

The rainy season descends upon them with a vengeance. The air becomes thick and muggy, the ocean outside their windows the same deep grey as the sky, and Viktor complains constantly about the state of his hair. Their wood-frame home creaks with the humidity and shakes with the cracks of thunder.

After a few weeks of this—and a near lifetime of stormy summer months—you would think Yuuri would sleep right through. But he finds himself suddenly awake one night, a storm raging outside and Viktor curled up snugly in his arms. Makkachin is gone from her usual spot at their feet, but they have been waking up to find her gone from their bed for weeks now. When Yuuri registers that he is awake, he nearly huffs in frustration: he will have so much trouble falling back to sleep now.

Except—there’s another crack of thunder from outside, close but not nearly close enough to have woken him. There is a good five seconds between the flash of light and the rumbling, meaning the storm is plenty of kilometers away.

And from down the hall, he hears something scratching on wood, and a dog’s high-pitched whining. _Michi’s room_ , he realizes, and his heart jumps and lodges itself in his throat. He disentangles himself from Viktor and their one-thousand-thread-count sheets and rushes to the hallway.

At the end of the hall, Michi’s door is shut, even though Yuuri and Viktor are always sure to leave it open when they kiss him goodnight. At the base of the door is Makkachin, scratching at the wood with her front paws. Yuuri’s gut churns, and he practically runs, flings the door open and finds—

Everything normal. Michi is curled up under the covers, facing away from the door. Makkachin bounds past Yuuri, jumps on the far side of the bed, walks in a circle, and settles onto the mattress. Yuuri flinches, expecting it to startle Michi awake—except there’s a small voice, muffled by the comforter, reaching his ears. The child-sized lump under the covers scoots closer to the dog and wraps around her.

“Mi-chan?"

Yuuri hears a little gasp, frightened enough to break his heart.

“Otousan?”

Michi sounds so small. He looks small, too, when he pulls the covers off from over his head and twists around to see his father.

“Sweetheart, why are you awake?" 

The boy’s reply is barely audible. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles. On Michi’s far side, Makkachin whines again and presses her nose against his arm. Michi responds automatically by running his hand over the top of her head, as if this has happened a thousand times.

Well—maybe not a thousand. But Makkachin hasn’t slept with Viktor and Yuuri for two weeks.

“Does this happen often?”

Michi looks away, his face half buried beneath the covers. The tight coil of panic still left in Yuuri’s stomach unwinds as he starts to understand.

“Oh, sweetheart, you should have told us,” he sighs, running one hand through his own sleep-shuffled hair. “Can I sit down?” Yuuri asks, and Michi nods. The mattress dips under his weight, and he flicks on the bedside lamp.

Michi’s eyes are red and splotchy. He tries to hide them, but Yuuri sees.

“Is it the thunderstorms?”

To Yuuri’s complete surprise, Michi shakes his head no, and Yuuri can tell he isn’t lying.

“What is it, then?”

Michi shrugs. Makkachin, feeling ignored, flops herself on top of Michi’s legs.

“You know, I have trouble sleeping too.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Yuuri props himself up against the headboard and, feeling bold, carefully slides his legs beneath the covers. It’s hot, almost too hot, beneath them. “It can be very hard to sleep if you’re scared.”

Michi sucks in a breath. “You get scared?” His brow furrows. “But…”

“But what?”

“You’re… strong. And all grown up.”

“I am,” Yuuri agrees. 

“You and Papa won _medals._ ”

A smile tugs at Yuuri’s lips. “We did. And we had to be very strong to do that, you’re right. But just because I’m strong doesn’t mean I can’t get scared.”

“Does Papa get scared, too?”

“Yes,” Yuuri answers, and realizes promptly that he has started running his fingers through Michi’s hair. He goes to pull away, but on second thought it doesn’t seem to bother the boy. “Everyone’s mind is special, you know, which means we all get scared of different things in different ways. For me, sometimes I get one little worry in my head and it seems like it’s all I can think about. It doesn’t make sense why I’m afraid, but it doesn’t have to.”

In the distance a light flashes, then thunder cracks. Michi leans his head into Yuuri’s touch. “What do you do? When you get scared?”

“Well, I used to get ashamed and try to deal with it on my own. But now I know that it’s okay to be scared. I’ll tell your papa if it’s bad, and he helps remind me that everything’s okay and that he loves me.” Yuuri taps Michi’s chin, and once he has his son’s rich brown eyes locked with his own, he continues. “We love you very much, Mi-chan. If you’re scared or worried or _anything,_ you should always come to us. We will listen.”

Yuuri startles when Michi moves, burying his face in the crook of his father’s arm. Yuuri has never felt anything as soft and warm as his son in his arms. He skates compulsory figures on Michi’s back with his index finger, as he so often does for Viktor.

“Sometimes I get bad dreams,” Michi whispers. “And I don’t want to go back to sleep.”

“Has that been happening a lot lately?” Yuuri feels Michi nod. “And Makkachin has been coming in to keep you company?”

Michi nods again. “She’s a good dog.”

Yuuri almost laughs. “You sound just like your papa when you say that.”

The boy hums. “I like Vikutoru-san being my papa,” he sighs. “And I like you being my otousan.”

No feeling in the world—not even standing at the center of a podium with a gold around his neck—can compare to holding his son in his arms and hearing him say those words. He wishes he could remember every single detail about this moment and the way his heart feels like it will fly out of his chest. Michi grounds him, though. The warm press of his small body against Yuuri’s side was well worth the wait.

“That’s good,” Yuuri manages to respond. “Because we’re your parents, and you’re stuck with us.”

“Even if… even if I get scared and wake you up every single night?”

It would be funny if it weren’t so sad—that Michi seems to share both of his fathers’ initial skepticism of unconditional love. Yuuri and Viktor both hid so much from each other in the beginning, fearing the precise moment the other decided it was too much and ran away. Of course that never happened. It would never happen with Michi, either.

(Except it has, in the past, with others that didn’t deserve him. It is not too hard to guess the reason for his nightmares.)

“Sweetheart, listen to me,” Yuuri begins firmly. “There is nothing in the world that you could do that would make us stop being your parents. You can wake us up every night for the rest of our lives and we will still love you. Okay?”

In his arms, Yuuri feels his son shiver, then relax. “Okay,” he mumbles.

Makkachin nudges Michi’s hand again, scooting even closer, and Michi’s responding laugh makes Yuuri’s heart swell. There’s a hitch to his breathing, though, and looking down he sees tears soaking through his shirt. Michi wipes his eyes furiously, but Yuuri takes his hand in his own.

“It’s okay if you cry. Papa cried a few weeks ago when he was showing me a video of turtles online. And remember last weekend, when I cried because I stubbed my toe really hard on the kitchen table and it went all black and blue. Sometimes you just need to let it out.”

And he does. Michi lets it out, weeks of lying awake and scared under his covers, curled around Makkachin and too afraid to ask his fathers for the comfort he so sorely needed. He gets that comfort now, though, his head nestled against Yuuri’s chest, Yuuri’s arms wrapped around his body and Makkachin spread out across their legs. They pet her together until Michi’s shoulders stop shaking, until his eyes run dry, until the poodle falls asleep on top of them and the thunder disappears into the distance. The rain still patters against the windowpane, and it lulls the boy to sleep.

Yuuri flicks off the bedside lamp, spends a few minutes cherishing it all, then falls asleep as well.

…

That’s how Viktor finds them in the morning.

“Michka!” he cries. “You stole my dog _and_ my husband! Here, move over. I want in.”

Yuuri and Michi gasp as the cool morning air sweeps under their blankets. Viktor has to practically lay on top of Yuuri in order to not fall off the bed. So this is how Yuuri will die—suffocated by his family, with his dog on his legs, his son on his left side and his husband on his right.

Michi rubs at his bleary eyes and looks around in confusion. Yuuri can pinpoint the exact moment he remembers what happened last night, because his cheeks go red and he buries his face back into the side of Yuuri’s chest, mumbling something unintelligible.

“Mmm, so comfortable,” Viktor hums, pressing a slightly indecent, open-mouthed kiss to the skin under Yuuri’s jaw. His lips are soft and his breath warm. Yuuri swats half-heartedly at him.

“Vitya,” he warns in a low voice, worried that Michi will notice. Luckily, the boy still has his face buried in Yuuri’s shirt. Viktor raises an eyebrow at Yuuri and Yuuri mouths, _later._

When they finally manage to will themselves out of bed, they head to the kitchen. Viktor makes _syrniki_ while Yuuri and Michi sit at the kitchen island with a brightly colored workbook the local school had given them. Luckily the boy doesn’t seem to mind it, because they want to get him on track to start school next April. Unfortunately, Yuuri keeps hindering their progress by getting distracted, because Viktor’s wearing an apron that says _Kiss the Chef!_ in terribly translated Japanese and standing over a crackling skillet with his hair all mussed from sleep, and Yuuri is merely a weak, weak man.

“Why do you keep looking at Papa?” Michi asks, and Yuuri feels his face turn the color of the strawberry jam Viktor is currently spooning into his tea.

Caught in the act and called out by his four-year-old. Unbelievable.

“I don’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Michi protests. At the same time, Viktor says, “Yes you do.”

“It’s just that you have flour on your nose.”

Viktor frowns. “No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Yuuri challenges, then reaches his hand into the bag of flour on the countertop, pulls some out, and _flicks._

“Otousan!”

“Yuuri!”

…

That evening, they go as a family to Yutopia Onsen for the first time.

Michi has met his grandparents and his aunt many times already. However, the social worker had suggested that they take the first few months to acclimate Michi to his home and try not to overwhelm him with too many new people and places at once. Yuuri’s family has come for weekly dinner at the Katsuki-Nikiforov’s every Saturday since Michi moved in, but now seems like the right time to venture elsewhere.

Michi clings to Yuuri’s pant leg from the moment they step through the front door. When Yuuri gets whisked away to help his mother in the kitchen, Michi holds on to Viktor instead.

The last thing Yuuri hears before he leaves the room is Viktor’s smiling voice asking, “Do you want to see some pictures of Otousan when he was your age?”

His mother is making katsudon, of course; it seems appropriate for the occasion. By nature of the situation, it has been months since Yuuri has been back to his childhood home, even though he only lives a few kilometers down the road.

“He seems… brighter,” his mother observes as she stirs the mirin and dashi into the thin, dark sauce. Yuuri tends the tonkatsu, pulling them out of the oil once they reach a crispy brown.

“I’m worried we’re overwhelming him.”

Hiroko scoffs. “You can’t worry so much about that. He will be perfectly comfortable here soon enough.”

“He wouldn’t let go of me the second we left the house.”

“So? That’s progress in its own right, isn’t it?”

A small smile graces Yuuri’s lips as he remembers the night before. “You’re right. It is.”

Soon after, they serve the meal to their big, smiling family gathered around the dinner table. Michi is snug next to Viktor, and Yuuri can see a brown tail sticking out beside them. Viktor inhales his katsudon and gets up promptly for seconds; Yuuri savors every bite; Michi struggles with the chopsticks and eats little bites of the rice and pork and egg separately. Makka bides her time until something falls on the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri sees a purple scrapbook lying open on the couch, flipped to the pictures of Yuuri’s first skating competition, the first place ribbon he won taped alongside.

“Michka, do you want to tell your otousan what you told me earlier?”

Michi’s face lights up, and he forgets all about his food. He looks up at Yuuri, smiles, and says, “I want to learn to skate like you and papa!”

Yuuri whips out his phone immediately and calls Yuuko to ask about public ice times.

Michi falls asleep in the onsen. He’d enjoyed it while it lasted, splashing around and asking constantly why Makka-chan couldn’t come swimming with them. His fathers watched him closely, knowing he shouldn’t be in the hot water too long, and pulled him out once his tired eyes began to droop. Yuuri dresses him and Viktor carries him to the car, taking care to buckle him properly into his booster seat. They don’t say a word on the drive home, and Yuuri finds himself wishing his husband wasn’t so against automatic cars; he wants to reach over and take his hand.

That night, Yuuri is awoken by something tugging at his shirt sleeve. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:37, the red numbers reflecting in Michi’s wide eyes.

“Otousan?” he whispers. Yuuri blinks, rolls over, and reaches out, smoothing his hand over his son’s messy hair.

“Can’t sleep?”

Michi bites his lip and shakes his head.

“Do you want to sleep with us?” Yuuri knows the authors of Viktor’s parenting magazines would be appalled. He doesn’t care.

Michi nods, still looking nervous, so Yuuri offers him his softest smile and pats the mattress between him and Viktor. The bed shifts as the boy clambers up and over Yuuri. Viktor stirs.

“What…?” he mumbles in Russian.

“We have a guest,” Yuuri tells him as Michi climbs under the covers. His little feet are cold against Yuuri’s leg.

“Mmmm,” Viktor hums, “my Michyenka.” He slings and arm over the boy’s waist.

Yuuri lies there and listens to their son’s breathing—his short, nervous breaths gradually become deeper, longer. Michi settles, and within minutes is asleep.

…

They go to the rink the first thing the next morning.

“Public rink time? For the Katsuki-Nikiforovs?” Yuuko had scoffed over the phone. “Please. There’s an hour of private time at ten.”

“Yuu-chan, it’s not like we’re teaching him quads, you don’t need to—”

“Just come at ten. Maybe I’ll bring my girls and they can help him out. You know, three kids to another.”

The triplets are nearly twelve and already competing in novice; they love Michi, and Michi adores them. They would be great built-in babysitters in a few years, if they weren’t so wild themselves.

Yuuko has heard Yuuri fret about overwhelming Michi many times, so perhaps that is why she insists on the private time now. It’s unnecessary but Yuuri can’t help but be grateful.

She also brings a few pairs of her daughters’ outgrown skates for Michi to try, and the boy’s eyes go wide the second Yuuri slides them on his feet. Viktor and Yuuri take turns tying Michi’s skates so they can tie their own.

“They _so_ suit you!” Lutz exclaims (or is it Loop? They’ve stopped wearing their color-coded hair ties, which is incredibly inconvenient for Yuuri).

Yuuko grins and snaps a picture of the three of them at the entrance to the rink. A month from now, she will frame it, wrap it, and give it to them as an anniversary present. It will sit on their bookcase forever, right next to Yuuri and Viktor’s Olympic golds.

Neither Yuuri nor Viktor know what to expect when their son goes to take his first step on the ice. Viktor has told Yuuri that, as far as he remembers, he didn’t hesitate the first time he tried to skate; he just went for it and fell on his butt however many times as was necessary. Yuuri doesn’t remember his own first time, he imagines he was scared, just like he imagines Michi must be scared now.

But Michi is a Katsuki-Nikiforov, which means he is strong even when he’s afraid. He screws up his face in determination, grips his fathers’ hands, and steps out onto the ice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [stammiviktor](http://stammiviktor.tumblr.com)


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